


Something New...A Rain Bow

by Princip1914



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Asexual Aziraphale (Good Omens), Asexual Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Cuddling & Snuggling, Falling In Love, Gay Pride, Kissing, M/M, Queer Themes, Snake Crowley (Good Omens), but it's still HELLA GAY my dudes, but suck at acknowledging it, gender is ineffable, size and shape are only options, they've been in a relationship for thousands of years
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-21
Updated: 2019-06-21
Packaged: 2020-05-15 19:01:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19301860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Princip1914/pseuds/Princip1914
Summary: Inspired by this Neil Gaiman twitter exchange:“So they’re gay, right?”Neil: “They’re an angel and a demon, not male humans.”“Ok, but they love eachother, right? :D”Neil: “Absolutely”





	Something New...A Rain Bow

**Author's Note:**

> Please enjoy this little slice of meta, disguised as extremely sappy fic, featuring ace!Aziraphale and ace!Crowley, since I hadn’t yet had a chance to try writing that incarnation of them. My headcannon for how they relate to human concepts like sexual orientation and gender is highly influenced by this wonderful piece: [Making an Effort](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17937731)
> 
> I don’t have a tumblr or anything (when I got started in fandom we all still used LJ! Satan I’m old!) but if you like this, please check out my other Good Omens fic and leave me a comment. I will do my best to reply!
> 
> Edited to say, I have a tumblr now, because I can't stay away: [Come say hi!](https://princip1914.tumblr.com)
> 
> Note: there is kissing in this fic, but no explicit sexual content

“Oi, angel,” Crowley says one afternoon as they are returning to the bookshop after a particularly decadent brunch that stretched into a midday stroll. “You do know that the rainbow flag you’ve hung in the front window isn’t referring to Noah right?”

Aziraphale pauses on the threshold. “Oh, I didn’t know you’d noticed it! Must have put it up a few weeks ago now!” He says breezily, but there’s an undercurrent in the words. Aziraphale doesn’t want him to press the subject, so of course Crowley does.

“You don’t know, do you?” Crowley leans against the doorjamb, delighted, feeling that this is even better than “bee-bop” or “tickity boo.” It will be years before he tires of teasing Aziraphale about this new misplaced foray into modern culture. “It represents all kinds of sin...debauchery, orgies, sodomy, etc. etc.… not a very angelic item to display, don’t you think?”

“Oh, I don’t know if needs to mean all those things,” Aziraphale says turning a bit pink in the cheeks and ushering Crowley through the door so he can shut it and flip the sign to closed. “It’s just there was a very nice gentleman down the block who was handing them out to all the queer businesses before this thing they do called “Pride” and oh, I couldn’t refuse now could I? Especially since it makes the poor dears feel more welcomed.”

“Of course you have a boring virtuous explanation” Crowley says, going for disgusted but landing somewhere closer to fond. Then his mind catches up to what Aziraphale said. “Wait, queer businesses?”

“Well, yes” Aziraphale is rifling through a stack of books that he just sorted only yesterday, not looking at Crowley. “I mean, aren’t we?” he says quietly.

“Wait...we?” Crowley feels this conversation slipping away from him. He feels pleasantly buzzed, more from a morning of Aziraphale’s casual touches (along his arm while they ate, a hand at his back as they strolled through the park afterwards), rather than from the champagne at brunch. Perhaps this drunk feeling has made him unusually bold. “We” is something Crowley hasn’t had the courage to address directly in six thousand years, not even after Armageddon came and went. It is a thing that Aziraphale never, ever brings up. They didn’t need to talk about “we.” They just were, or so Crowley thought.

“Us, yes.” Aziraphale turns to face Crowley, leaning back against the shop till. “I rather think we are...don’t you?”

“We’re not men, angel,” Crowley says, trying to inject some sense into this conversation.

“We’re man shaped creatures,” Aziraphale says damnably (or rather, miraculously) placid. 

“Not all the time!”

“My dear don’t remind me” Aziraphale says. From the disapproving look on his face, Crowley is sure he’s remembering Crowley’s brief dalliance with female fashion in the 19th century.

“Fair’s fair, as soon as I had to wear what they did with my corset idea, I tried to talk them out of it,” Crowley snaps, looking a little abashed. “Anyway, ssssometimes I’m not even human ssshhaped at all,” he hisses.

Aziraphale gazes at him, impossibly fond. “I don’t really think it’s about what we’re shaped like,” he says.

“What’s it about then?” Crowley asks intently. “We don’t have sex.”

“Too many squishy bits,” Aziraphale says, and Crowley shudders in agreement. “We do kiss though.”

“When you take advantage of my moments of weakness,” the demon mutters. His last moment of weakness had been just this morning, right after brunch, when Aziraphale had stepped out into the early June sunlight and had turned to him with something Crowley hardly dared to name in his eyes, the kind of look he used to only give Crowley when he thought Crowley wasn’t watching. Now that the Apocalypse has happened and they’re still here, Aziraphale gives him these looks with almost unbearable frequency. This morning, Crowley had leaned in, pressed his lips to Aziraphale’s as a way to evade the warm knowledge in those eyes, but somehow the taste of him--champagne, and moral certainty, and kindness, and old books--had been even worse than the weight of his gaze.

Aziraphale tries and fails to hide a smile. “And we hold hands. And we cuddle. You very much enjoy that.”

“I’m cold blooded, it’s in my demonic nature to like to share body heat!” Crowley protests weakly. Aziraphale is giving him that look again and something unspools inside Crowley, indeed the way a serpent would bask in the sun. “Regardless,” Crowley says, coughing. “We’re not queer.”

“Maybe not the way the men at my dancing club were,” Aziraphale concedes and oh, isn’t that a revelation Crowley files away for later. Aziraphale knew all along what that place was really for and went anyway. “I rather think,” Aziraphale stutters and the blush returns on his cheeks as he looks down at his perfectly manicured nails. “It’s not about what we’re shaped like, or um...our intimate moments. I think…” he cuts himself off and turns if possible even pinker. “I think it’s about loving, loving in a way that’s not expected of you, that’s actively discouraged even--” and here Aziraphale looks up, meets and holds Crowley’s gaze behind the smoky lenses, “to the point of persecution and punishment by one’s respective societies as it were.”

“Oh,” Crowley says softly. “oh.” He can’t meet Aziraphale’s eyes any longer. He turns away to trail a hand along the edge of the rainbow flag in the window. Courage is a virtue, which means it’s not really Crowley’s area, but you can’t have an angel for a best friend and six thousand years of worldly experience without learning a little bit about virtue. “I guess we are then,” he says.

Aziraphale comes up behind him, hovers there.

“You may,” Crowley says magnanimously and Aziraphale folds him ever so gently in his arms.

“I’m glad we are,” Aziraphale says into Crowley’s hairline. “That is...er...you too?”

Crowley sighs and leans back into the solid bulk of the angel. “Yes, Aziraphale, I’ve loved you for almost six thousand years,” he manages. Strange how simple, how natural, the words sound in the air. They had been buried somewhere behind Crowley’s sternum for so long he thought they might have suffocated or that they would explode upon finally being spoken. But the light still shines the same way through the dust motes in the air, Aziraphale’s arms have not dislodged themselves from Crowley’s waist.

“I thought so,” Aziraphale murmurs behind him. “I do too, you know, very, very much for many, many years, although possibly not quite as long as that. I’m sorry it took me so very long Crowley, I’m sorry for all the times--”

“Angel, shut up,” Crowley says fondly and turns in Aziraphale’s embrace to press their lips together. Having said the words aloud does not change the exquisite taste of Aziraphale’s kiss, but the knowledge sits deep in Crowley’s chest and nestles in to sooth the vulnerable, quivering thing that lives there. “We are,” he says against Aziraphale’s lips.

“Oh my, dear,” Aziraphale whispers back, smoothing a hand through Crowley’s hair. “Yes, we are.”


End file.
